Dracula in Love

Chapter Seventeen

22 November 1890

The doors to the mansion flew open, letting us into the reception hall. No one was present, but the house was warm and light glowed from the lamps. The Count threw off his cape and flung it on the floor. “You will find that a warm bath is drawn for you and a gown laid out. Please be dressed by midnight, and I will take you to see your Jonathan. In the interim, as always, the staff is at your service.”

Nothing in his demeanor invited questions, and, besides, he disappeared, so I did as he said, entering a steamy bath scented with lavender, and tried to let the water suppress my anxiety. I had no idea how he had arranged this midnight meeting with Jonathan, but I trusted, perhaps foolishly, that he would not let any harm come to me. Jonathan, for his part, would surely not want any harm to come to me once he knew that I carried his child, even if he was certain now that I was another of the creatures he had learned to fear. I did not welcome this mission, but I also did not think that I should keep the pregnancy from the child’s father, if only because the boy would grow up and discover his true identity, and surely hate me for it.

The Count sent a French girl, Odette, with a tray of food, which I devoured. I suspected that my powers were heightening because this time, despite my pregnancy, flying with the Count had not exhausted me. Could I be pregnant with a mortal child and transforming all at the same time?

I sat at the vanity and watched in the mirror as Odette swept my hair into a sophisticated twist with pinned curls at the crown, held together by bejeweled ornaments. She dressed me in a glistening emerald green taffeta gown with a matching cloak. I watched myself being transformed in the mirror, astonished at my stylish appearance. I could not imagine why the Count had selected such an extravagant and devastatingly flattering outfit for a meeting with my husband. Was he trying to get Jonathan to take me off his hands?

Tiny gems were sewn into the binding of the neckline, throwing light onto my face, which Odette tinted with barely discernible rouge on my cheeks and lips. Thinking of the baby, I had asked her not to lace the corset ribbons too tight. Still, the bodice lifted my breasts high on my chest and made my already small waist look even more narrow. Two puckered seams ran horizontally down the length of the skirt, giving my hips the curve of a mermaid. When she finished dressing me, we both admired her handiwork in the mirror. Before I left the room, she handed me a matching mask that turned up at the ends into cats’ eyes and had a long ebony handle.

The Count tried not to show any pleasure with the way I looked as he helped me into the carriage. We did not speak, and I tried to keep my mind blank so that he could not read my thoughts. He wore a simple black satin half mask so that his face was inscrutable. I tried to fathom the sort of gathering that demanded formal dress, which Jonathan would also be attending. I could not even imagine that Jonathan would agree to be in the presence of the Count. I could stand the suspense no longer and asked, “Is Jonathan aware that we are coming?”

To which he replied, “In a manner of speaking.”

Why won’t you talk to me?

No sooner had I thought it than he answered me wearily. “What can I possibly say that you do not already know? All decisions to be made are yours. I will not interfere, Mina. I have paid the price of interfering in your life before and I will not do it again.” He turned away from me and looked out the window.

I paid little attention to where we were going, though I was looking out the opposite window. I became vaguely aware that we were driving through Mayfair when the Count tapped on the window with his walking stick, and the coachman turned onto a narrow street and stopped. The Count exited the carriage first and helped me out. He took my arm-not lovingly and not roughly but indifferently-and led me down an alley that opened into a small square, in the center of which was a garden. Though it was late autumn, the trees retained their green finery, and heady flower bushes bloomed. I wanted to stop to examine a gaudy pink peony poking through the garden’s spiky wrought-iron fence-a miracle in November-but the Count pulled me on impatiently.

The square was dark but for soft light coming from the windows of a three-story white Georgian mansion. We walked up the steps to an imposing portico supported by four grand Corinthian columns. He lifted a gargantuan bronze knocker with the face of an imperial lion and then smacked it down. The door opened, and we entered the foyer, a room with marble floors and a sweeping staircase with glinting rails of white and gold. Two butlers greeted us, one taking our wraps, and the other giving us long flutes of champagne.

We entered a ballroom where a small orchestra was playing a waltz for masked dancers who filled the center of the floor with a swirl of color and motion. The masks they wore were varied and ranged from simple to severe-masks with jesters’ bells, hawks’ beaks, delicate gold wings, shiny jewels. Some had crests of feathers, and some gentlemen wore full face masks of silver or gold. An enchanting glow filled the room, but I could not find the source of light. A fire blazed in the hearth, but the great chandeliers above were unlit. Gradually, it dawned on me that the light came from the creatures in attendance, the dancers themselves, who were luminous like the Count-not enough to disturb the eye but enough to dazzle.

“Where are we? Who is hosting this gathering?” I asked. My eyes scanned the room for Jonathan, but I saw no one who resembled him. Could he be behind one of the eerie metallic masks?

“There is no host,” he said. “Let’s see, how shall I explain this to you? This is a collective hallucination of mass desire. We and everyone else here have had a part in its design. Many of my kind are here among us. They have come to mingle with one another, and some have brought the mortals with whom they are currently fascinated.”

He took my arm, leading me past the twirling dancers and through a labyrinthine series of rooms, littered with couples intertwined in the darkness. I saw flashes of naked skin, arms twisted around bodies like serpents, booted legs spread in the air like wings, and one bare-chested lady swinging on a velvet-roped seat hanging from the tall ceiling. In one room, a woman with hair piled high atop her head played a piano, her crinoline covering the bench, while a man in a powdered wig turned the page of music for her. With the masks and the music and the champagne, which quickly went to my head, I could not tell who was mortal and who was not.

The Count read my thoughts. “Everyone has come seeking answers to questions and the fulfillment of desires. You want to see Jonathan. He has his own reasons for being here. All is arranged.”

He opened double doors to a room and invited me to enter first. In this room, the candles were lit. It took me a moment for my eyes to adjust to the flickering light, but the scene before me came all too quickly into sharp focus. Three lavish gowns were strewn across a chaise-two white ones, and one of scarlet that slashed across the other two making a cross. Jonathan was lying supine on a huge bed covered in plush red velvet. Straddling him, riding him like some sort of animal, was a blond woman in a red corset that I knew must be Ursulina. Her voluptuous, scarlet lips were curled and her mouth wide-open while she took her pleasure. Two dark-haired women lay on either side of Jonathan, kissing and caressing him and each other. His eyes were shut tight, his mouth open, and his face shining with rapture as each of the women sucked the fingers of his hands. Ursulina’s head was thrown backward, exposing her long ivory white neck.

I thought I would run away in horror, but I forced myself to watch. I saw the Count watching me through his mask with great interest. The foursome on the bed did not seem to notice me, and I wondered if this vision was real. As I watched the blond succubus writhe on top of the father of my child, rage suddenly rose inside me, taking me over and igniting some primitive sense of rivalry. I was possessed by fury and I wanted to punish her for all that she was doing and all that she had done.

I focused my intent on that pristine white neck of hers until I felt I could puncture the skin. Making a crescent in the air with my finger, I slowly and carefully made a big slash at the base of her throat. Her head popped up straight, and our eyes met, hers wide with surprise, and then seething with anger. With no time passing, I flew through the air, and my lips were on her with such force that I threw her off Jonathan, pinning her arms to the bed while I sucked in her strange-tasting blood. It was tart, like a bitter fruit that one cannot stop eating despite the astringent taste and the way it makes the mouth pucker. I heard myself grunt with pleasure while the others tried to pry me from her. The Count yelled at them in a language I did not understand, and they backed off. I was electrified with the thrill of vanquishing her in this way, eager to drain her until she was inert.

But soon I felt her gather her strength. Stronger than me, she flipped us over, dislodging me from her neck, which was bleeding a rivulet of shimmering rubies down her chest. I could feel her try to close the wound with her mind, but with each mental stitch she made, I reopened it. The tug-of-war went on, with me reopening the wound each time she closed it, my excitement growing as I watched it bleed its unnaturally red stream. Our fingers were linked, and she pushed my hands toward the bed, while I pushed against her. In my mind’s eye, I saw her flying backward away from me, hitting the heavy wrought-iron headboard, and falling into her sisters’ arms. With that image strong inside me, I pushed with all my might and powered her off me. The Count grabbed me, and, before I could attack her again, he had me by the waist and was taking me away. Ursulina, still pressed against the headboard, was hissing at me like a serpent woman. Jonathan and the other two female creatures cowered together, looking like some profane triptych. His face was full of terror.

Tell him, the Count’s voice demanded. Tell him, or I will tell him.

“You are going to be a father, Jonathan,” I said. “It’s a boy.” I freed myself from the Count’s grasp, and together we walked out of the room.

I caught a glimpse of myself in a full-length gilded mirror as we walked through the ballroom. I looked taller, stronger, my already correct posture now exhibiting a strength that gave me a statuesque potency. I felt as if people were moving aside to make way for me, admiring me and fearing me as I glided through the crowd. As we left the mansion, a force gathering inside me erased every thought and consequence of what I had done.

This is who you are, Mina. It is undeniable now.

The Count knew that I was elated and could not be confined in a carriage, so he sent the coach away and walked with me down London’s smoky gaslit streets. Soon enough, though, the rapture began to wear off, and I started to think again, wondering if I might have hurt my baby by what I had done. The Count put one arm around my shoulder and rested his other hand on my abdomen. “I do not think that you have harmed it or altered it,” he said. “Despite your formidable display this evening, the child still carries the frequency and vibration of the father. It is unchanged.”

“Jonathan is too weak to be a father,” I said.

Indeed. He is too weak to be the father of your child.

“Too weak because you left him to be the victim of those creatures,” I said.

“You are not so different from those creatures,” he said. He had removed his mask, and I saw the little ironic smile that crept over his face.

We walked through Shepherd Market, where a few dim lights shone weakly through the windows above the closed shops. It was a cold evening, but I did not feel the temperature. The Count kept his arm around me as we walked up Half Moon Street and on to Piccadilly, where we crossed the street and walked into the park.

“Those women-what are they? Did they begin as mortals?” I asked. His comment that I was not unlike them disturbed me. If I developed my powers, would I start preying upon the innocent?

“No, they did not. But in your original lifetime, neither did you. You would know them as the daughters of Lilith. They are enchantresses who live separate from men until they wish to seduce them. Some call them lamia. They are unruly and wanton beings, and they are able to take many different forms-swans, seals, snakes, and sometimes women with serpents’ tales.”

I had a vague notion of Lilith from artists’ paintings and biblical tales. “I remember the name Lilith from Von Helsinger’s notes. He had speculated about whether she might still exist.”

“The doctor was correct in a way,” the Count said. “Everything that once was still exists in one form or another. Lilith was one of the angels who, with Lucifer, called themselves into physical existence through their desire for life on earth. She first appeared in the midst of a wild tempest, and the humans who witnessed it called her the Lady of the Storm. Her beauty struck the mortal men who saw her. They fought savagely for her attention, shedding blood and betraying one another. Eventually, they turned the blame on Lilith herself for enticing them, and they began to demonize her, which made her turn angry and vengeful.

“By this time, she had given birth to many daughters; and together, they began to haunt those who feared and hated them, coming to them at night and sucking away their energy and their blood. They began to take revenge wherever they could, seducing the strongest of men to get their stock and then discarding them. If one of their lovers took a mortal wife, they invaded his home at night and drank the blood of his children.”

His words stopped me cold. They will try to do that to my child. I cringed at the vengeful acts I had invited by attacking that creature. How would I protect my child if he were fully human with none of my powers? They would easily do to him what they had done to his father. Or worse.

“The lamia live by their own code,” the Count said. “Men have called the fate on themselves by their own desires.”

“It seems to me that you arranged Jonathan’s fate. He is only human. You left him to be ruined by your women.”

“That is correct: he is only human. You are so much more.”

“And my child?” I asked.

“As you fear, the child will be in danger, but I will protect him. After all, he is yours too.”

The next day, plagued by curiosity, I went to look for the mansion where the masked ball had taken place, but I could not find it. I retraced the carriage ride onto the narrow street where the coachman had let us out, and then found the alley that led to the square, but neither the house nor the square was there. In fact, the alley dead-ended into the back of an ugly brown brick hospital.

After that, I gave up trying to solve any of the mysteries in my life. The Count and I loved each other, and if he accepted my child and could protect it against the creatures that might do it harm, then I would stay with him. I did not want to remain in London where I would daily see shadows of my former life. I could never face the people I had known without explaining something of what had happened. Kate Reed was probably still waiting for my information to write an article about the scandalous treatment of women in the asylum. Headmistress was undoubtedly contacting people who knew me to find out how I was adjusting to married life. Somehow, I thought that word would get out that I had fallen in love with a mysterious foreigner and left my husband soon after the wedding, and that would be the end of my existence in this city.

I did not want to go to the Count’s estate in Styria, the site of Jonathan’s fall. We decided that we would live quietly in the London mansion until the Count’s staff could ready one of his country estates in France. Then we would move our household there well in advance of the birth. He assured me that the French midwives were superb, and that the estate would be a wonderful place for my son to spend his early years. “You have lived there before, Mina, and when you see it, you will know that you are once again home,” he said.

“Was it a good life?” I asked.

“One of the very best,” he said.

After the blood-drinking incident with Ursulina, we watched my body for signs of change. Though my senses were keener than ever before, the only other changes we observed were the effects of pregnancy. I was happy to simply be that-a woman expecting a baby-and I was not anxious to use my power or my magic for fear that it might harm the fetus, though I knew that the resurrection of those gifts had permanently emboldened me. The Count acted as my physician and metaphysician, checking my human vital signs twice a day, and also reading my frequency for evidence of the transformation. He believed that the pregnancy had interrupted the process, or slowed the pace of it, in order to accommodate the creation of another being. As he had warned, this was a highly unpredictable game with no rules. “The body knows what it is doing, Mina,” he said. “The fetus is strong. Let us be satisfied with that for the present.”

In early December, snow cast an austere white hand over the city. I spent my days taking advantage of the Count’s magnificent library, which contained leather-bound volumes collected over the centuries. Sometimes at night, we took walks in the parks, where, between the snow and my new superior night vision, I saw as well as if it were daytime. Birds, animals, branches, all were clearly revealed to me by moonlight, and it was thrilling to watch night’s performances, largely invisible to the naked human eye, in all its vivid wonder. Some evenings, we read together by lamplight, or talked of plans for the immediate future. We did not speculate on eternity. I did know that I had at least this lifetime ahead of me, and I started to teach myself to play the piano. One day, a beautiful baroque harp appeared in the parlor, and, strumming the strings, I fell in love with its resonant sound, and melodies that I must have played in some long-lost lifetime came back to me with ease. I also imagined that it soothed my little one when I played a simple lullaby on either instrument.

One cold winter afternoon, two weeks into Advent, on the sort of gray London day when the sky begins to darken before daylight had taken hold, we were sitting in the library, when the Count looked up from his newspaper. “Someone is coming,” he said. He stood up, letting the newspaper flutter to the floor. Nothing had disturbed our serenity in weeks, and I did not like the alarmed look on his face. He walked toward the door and then stopped. I noticed that he had made a fist, which rested by his side. He turned and looked at me. “It’s Harker. And another man.”

As soon as he said it, I could feel the essence of Jonathan coming toward me. I felt him so vividly that I could hear the creak of the gate as he gingerly opened it and the snow crunching beneath his feet as he walked to our door. I could also feel that he was not alone. His companion felt familiar, but I could not put an identity to him. This was a new sensation for me; thus far I had been able to feel only the vibration of the Count. But now I could feel Jonathan’s essence-his being, his core, that hum that identified him as who he was-as if he were standing next to me. As soon as I was fully aware of him, something deep inside me-perhaps it was my baby talking to me-knew that I had to hear what he had come to tell me.

“Let me speak with him in the parlor,” I said.

“I do not like it,” the Count replied. He closed his eyes for a moment and stuck his nose into the air. “They carry the scent of danger, and the one who is with Harker is very strong.” He did not have to tell me that he was surprised by Jonathan’s courage in coming here.

“I can protect myself,” I said, knowing intuitively that the danger was not directed at me. “Perhaps it is Jonathan who is in danger. He might be coming here for help.”

He is not your responsibility, Mina.

“That is where we disagree. If not for me, and hence, if not for you, Jonathan would be living a perfectly normal and happy life.”

We stood, staring at each other for a while, until he knew that I was not going to change my mind.

I will be watching. And then he left the room.

I opened the door myself before Jonathan had a chance to use the knocker. Standing at the portal with him was Morris Quince. Both men wore heavy, dark coats against the December chill, and their shoulders were hunched, either from the cold or from the anxiety of the visit. Quince looked larger and more chiseled than I had remembered. His strong jawline was set with a new ferocity. Jonathan had lost the haunted and defensive look he had worn on his face since his days in Styria. His eyes were clear and his face determined.

I invited them to come into the parlor, but they hesitated. “We would like you to come with us,” Jonathan said. “Mr. Quince would like to talk to you.”

“Please come in,” I said, knowing what the Count’s reaction would be if I left with them.

“Is he here?” Jonathan asked, trying to peer inside. Before I could answer, he said, “I have no care for my own safety, Mina. I will face him if necessary. But I do not want to put you in danger. Or the baby,” he added. “Things are happening that you should know about.”

“We will all be safe, I assure you,” I said, though seeing Morris Quince brought back the memories of his abandonment of Lucy and her subsequent death, and I could not be sure that I would not try to kill him.

The men exchanged looks to reassure each other and then followed me inside to the parlor. No one sat down. Morris Quince began to speak immediately. “I can only imagine your opinion of me, Miss Mina. I know that you think I callously left Lucy last summer, but I assure you that I did not.”

I did not respond, but sat down, waiting for him to explain himself. Jonathan hesitantly sat in a chair opposite me, but Quince continued to pace while he talked. He poured out his story, explaining that he had left Lucy in Whitby only so that he could hurry home to reconcile with his family and tell them that he intended to come into the family business and to marry. “I had begun to realize that I was not much of a painter after all,” he said, shaking his head with what looked like regret. “When I read that nonsense in the paper about Lucy being attacked, I saw the terrible stress our relationship was putting on her. I rushed to see her, but her mother told me that she was ill and could not see anyone. I thought that I was making her sick-sick with passion and longing, which made me aware that it was time for drastic action. I wanted to move the mother aside and go to Lucy, but Mrs. Westenra already despised me enough, so I left a letter with her that she promised to give to Lucy. I also sent a letter to Arthur, informing him that Lucy and I loved each other and intended to marry, and that as a gentleman, he must not press the issue of their marriage.

“When I arrived in America, I sent Lucy a telegram telling her to wait for me. I wrote her a letter every day, and, after weeks of not hearing back, I returned to London to find out that she had married Arthur and had died.”

His face was full of self-recrimination. “I am a wretched man. I never should have left her, but I did not want her to be treated as a runaway bride. My family would have thought less of her. She was too good for that. Instead, I killed her.”

As he spoke, I listened with the sorry knowledge that everything he said was true. Guilt flooded me, competing with sadness for mastery of me. “I had a hand in it too, Mr. Quince,” I said. Would I ever be able to forgive myself for encouraging Lucy into the arms of Holmwood? “I was convinced that you were a scoundrel and tried my best to convince Lucy of the same. If it is any consolation, she never doubted your love.”

The clock chimed four o’clock, and Jonathan stood up and looked out the parlor window. “I am sorry to interrupt, but there is a matter of some urgency that we must discuss,” he said. “There is not much time.”

“I have spoken my piece, and you have my gratitude for listening to me,” Quince said. “If you don’t mind, I will go outside to smoke.” He turned to Jonathan and added that he would keep watch.

I was about to ask Jonathan what he might have meant, but he spoke first. “Mina, you must leave this house immediately.” His voice was grave.

“What are you trying to tell me, Jonathan?” I asked. He was terribly nervous, and I realized the risk he was taking in coming here to talk to me.

“Just listen to me, Mina. Listen, and judge me later. We’ve no time for that now. We must get away from here.”

“I will decide what I must and must not do,” I said. How dare he come here, trying to command me like a husband? “Are you trying to recapture me for another of Von Helsinger’s experiments? Do you have any idea what I endured, with your consent, in that asylum? They would have killed me if they had gone through with their plans.”

“I will spend the rest of my life atoning, if you will just hear me out. I was in shock after what happened-seeing you in the photograph with the man who had orchestrated my ruin and believing that you were in league with him. The doctors assured me that they would help you. I did not know what else to do. My mind was muddled from all that I had experienced. This world, Mina”-he gestured around the room-“this world-the Count’s world, Ursulina’s world-that you now inhabit is not my world! And now you tell me that I am going to have a son and he is going to be raised in this world?”

I saw the frustration and helplessness in his eyes. “After I left you to have the transfusion, I sat in the parlor, worried about what was going to happen to you and wondering if you were to meet Lucy’s fate. I was about to return to the room to stop them, or at least question them further, when Seward and Von Helsinger came running into the parlor. They were bleeding and screaming that a wild beast had attacked them. We gathered weapons and we went back into the room, where the window had been ripped from its frame, the thick iron bars that no man could have possibly removed had been torn asunder, and your bed was empty.

“Not knowing what else to do, and believing that it was not safe to be alone, I remained at the asylum. I wanted to call the authorities and report you missing, but Von Helsinger said that the matter was beyond anything that the police could comprehend. He was right, of course. I lost all hope and spent weeks lying in bed, disillusioned and certain that I was suffering from a madness from which I would never return. When Ursulina came for me that night, offering pleasures that would relieve my anguish, I did not resist.”

Like a bolt of lightning, the sure knowledge that the Count had arranged the entire affair struck me. I knew beyond a doubt that it was true, that he bade the lamia to seduce Jonathan yet again, so that I would see him as unfit to be a father to his child. I felt manipulated by him, and I started to feel angry.

Love is not a game played fairly, Mina.

He was listening to every word. I could not hide from him, so I made up my mind to speak plainly to Jonathan regardless. “I hold you blameless for that,” I said. “You were the victim of forces beyond your control. But are you not afraid of me after what you saw me do to Ursulina?”

He almost smiled, not the boyish grin I had so loved in our innocent past but a more mature, knowing smile. “With all that I have seen, I too have changed. I have thought of little else but you and the child in the weeks since I saw you. I do not think that I am worthy of it yet, but I do want to be a father. I will do whatever I must do to strengthen myself for that task. I wish for that, Mina. Despite what you may think, I have never stopped loving you or wanting the life we dreamed that we would one day have together.”

I could not say to him that I had the same feelings. Nothing would equal my attachment to the Count, but the third party growing inside me had to be considered, and some of my affection for Jonathan endured despite all that had transpired.

“I am no longer the docile woman you used to know,” I said. “And I do not ever intend to return to being her.”

“Yes, Mina, I have seen ample evidence of that.” The sardonic tone in his voice was new, but with it came a new level of understanding, a new depth that had not previously been there. “But nor am I the same man. Perhaps we will not have the life we had imagined, but we might have some new and wondrous version of it.” In that moment, he looked hopeful, and I saw a shadow of the man I had once loved.

“You do not have to answer me now, but I must get you away from here. Terrible things are going to happen. After the extraordinary way that the Count took you from the asylum, Von Helsinger became convinced that he was indeed a vampire and that he must be vanquished. I do not know what the Count’s fascination with you is, or yours with him, but I do not want to see you hurt. Von Helsinger has done his research and has discovered the means to destroy him-a bullet of silver through the heart. He is coming here at sundown with Seward and Godalming, who is a collector of weapons and an expert shot. They are going to confront him and kill him.”

“Their efforts will be fruitless,” I said. “He cannot be destroyed.”

“Von Helsinger believes otherwise. They will be here soon. Please come away from this place. Let the others do as they may. For once, let us save ourselves.” He was pleading now.

“Von Helsinger is mad, and Seward is his disciple, but why would Lord Godalming involve himself in such a plot?” I asked.

“It is my fault. They questioned me rigorously about the Count and his business in London. Von Helsinger assured me that I must spare no detail, so I disclosed that the Count had filled fifty crates with his treasures, including a large amount of gold, and transported them to England on the Valkyrie. They believe that the gold is stored here.”

“And Godalming intends to lay his hands on it?” I asked.

“Yes! It is an undocumented fortune. The Count has vast holdings under many different names, but the gold is part of his secret trove. No one knows of it, and no one will know if it is missing.”

The Count’s laughter cackled in my mind as he listened to Jonathan reveal their plans. Greedy fools. I thought of the doomed captain and crew of the Valkyrie, and wondered if the Count would do the same to this group, trying their luck as novice buccaneers.

“Are you going to take your share of the loot?” I asked him. “Is that your true purpose here?”

“I could not convince the others to abandon their plan, so let us leave them to it. The Count can summon the powers of hell to defend himself. I care only about you and the child. There will be violence here. It is no place for a woman, not even one with your astounding abilities.”

Jonathan tried to take my hand, but I pulled it away.

You know who you are now, Mina. You cannot go back.

The Count’s voice sounded deafeningly in my head. He was correct: How could I possibly return to ordinary human life after what we had experienced together? Yet how could I tell Jonathan that his child was going to be raised by another-the supernatural being who had laid waste to the life that he and I had hoped to live?

Mina, what do you want?

I could feel the Count pulling at me, drawing me to him, sending out his powerful energy to recapture me. I felt surrounded by it, wrapped in the invisible blanket of his devotion and eternally connected to him as I would never again be to another. If he had been present in the room, I might have fallen directly into his arms and never left him again. In the instant that I had that thought, he felt my vulnerability, and he was standing between Jonathan and me. Jonathan jumped back, almost tripping over a table and stumbling before he regained his balance.

“How nice of you to visit, Harker.”

Jonathan planted both feet firmly on the ground. “I did not come here to see you,” he said.

“I am aware of your purpose, as I have always been aware of your every desire, no matter how subtle,” the Count replied. “I have been explaining to Mina that there are no accidents in the world, that no living being is seduced into an entanglement that he did not invite with his innermost desires. Would you agree with my estimation?”

Rather than shrink with fear or shame, as I thought he might, Jonathan considered what the Count said, as if he had been presented with an interesting new scientific theory. “I do agree, and that is why I have come. I have had ample opportunity to contemplate my deepest wishes, and they are to be a father to my child and a husband to my wife.”

“I have never stood in your way,” the Count said. “And I will not do so now. Mina is free to do as she chooses.”

The men turned to me for a decision, but I was roiling in the wild torrent of their colliding desires. I tried to shield myself from both of them so that I could hear my own thoughts and feel my own emotions, but their opposing energies were tearing me apart. I could not look at either of them, but in my mind’s eye, I envisioned my possible lives. As much as I belonged to the Count and did not want to leave, the little being that had invaded my body, temporarily taking possession of me, had to be considered.

Was this every mother’s dilemma-to be caught between her own desires and the welfare of her child? I had just rediscovered my true nature and was beginning to explore my gifts. Would I now have to forsake all that for a life of convention?

Make your choice, Mina. I will not interfere.

“Mina, what do you want?” Jonathan asked.

Suddenly, I knew. “I want my child to be safe. I want him to be healthy and happy and to have the loving family that I did not have when I was a child. That is what I want. That is what I must care about. Not your wills and desires or mine. Just the child.” Somewhere in my soul, I was still the woman who would take her own life in despair over not being able to save her son. That was as much an essential part of my nature as my gifts. Perhaps that was woman’s true gift-to be able to obliterate her own desires and choose for a child. Jonathan was right; I could not raise our mortal son in the Count’s world.

As soon as I resigned myself to that reality, relief overtook me, and I knew that the sacrifice I was making would not be in vain. The Count did not even look surprised, but quickly met my decision with a decision of his own.

And so it is again.

He retracted his energy from me, drawing it back into himself. His withdrawal opened up a void in my being and I thought I would crumple from the loss of him. I had not realized how much we had become a part of each other until he took himself away from me. I felt as if my own heart were being ripped from my chest. Jonathan had no conscious idea of what was transpiring, but he must have perceived my sudden weakness because he put his arm around my waist as if to catch me.

I could not move. Jonathan took my hand and started to lead me toward the door. But at that moment, Morris Quince came barreling through the foyer, bringing in the scent of cigarette smoke and an even more distinct sense of urgency and danger.

“They are here,” he said to Jonathan. He visibly recoiled as his eyes took in the Count, who was suddenly emitting an air of menace.

“Let them come,” he said, as if the idea intrigued him.

We heard footsteps coming toward the front door, and we saw it slowly open. Godalming entered first, a pistol in his hand, followed by John Seward and Von Helsinger, whose face bore long scars from the swipe of the wolf dog’s treacherous nails.

“Morris?” Both Seward and Godalming looked astonished to see Quince, but only Seward spoke. “Morris, what the hell are you doing here?”

Von Helsinger’s attention was on Jonathan. “Harker, you have betrayed us to the monster!” he said. He turned to Seward. “I told you not to trust him. He was bitten. His loyalty is with the creatures!”

Seward looked at me. “We should have expected it. They are a family of betrayers.”

I cannot say that the appearance of the two doctors did not frighten me. The fear that they could capture me and once again inflict their cruelty in the name of science and medicine came rushing in. I had to remind myself that now I had power against them. “Whoever touches me will pay the price,” I said. The two men looked fearfully at the Count, unaware that it was I who would happily kill either one of them if provoked.

No one seemed to know what to do until Morris Quince looked at Godalming and at the pistol and without hesitation leapt on him, knocking him backward into the other men and onto the marble floor. Oblivious to anyone else or to the gun that Godalming still held, Quince started punching him in the face.

The two doctors were unprepared for the appearance of this new enemy, and they both shrank back. Seward yelled at Quince to stop. “You have no idea what you are interfering with, Morris. Get out of here!” He tried to grab Quince from behind, but the larger man did not budge. Godalming struck Morris in the temple with the gun, but Morris did not seem to feel it. He continued to straddle Godalming, delivering his blows until the gun, still in Arthur’s hand, was pointed at Seward. The doctor saw that the barrel was directed at his face and he cowered.

Von Helsinger was pressed against the door, his big black grasshopper eyes darting between the fight and the Count. Jonathan moved to enter the fray, I suppose, to help break it up. But the Count held him back. “This is not your affair, Harker.”

“It is my affair. I’m taking Mina out of here,” Jonathan said, reaching for my arm, but the Count stopped him, seemingly by just putting a hand on his shoulder. “Not yet,” the Count said. I saw Jonathan’s arm and shoulder flinch under the Count’s touch and knew that he must be using his intense energy to detain him.

One must know when to interfere in the course of human events.

Though he had removed his essence from me, I still heard his bitter words inside my mind, and I knew that they were directed at me with the intent to let me know that I had wounded him yet again.

But I was afraid to take my attention off the fight. Quince was seething and out of control. “This is for Lucy,” he said, delivering one blow after the next. Clearly the stronger man, his fury magnified his power. Seward kept circling the two men on the ground, trying to find an opportunity to grab Quince, but his arms were swinging too wildly for anyone to get close.

My eyes followed the barrel of the gun as Quince’s blows sent it pointing all over the room. Arthur’s finger was on the trigger, and I was afraid he would fire it and hit someone. The barrel swung with the force of the punches, making targets of each one of us. I was amazed at how Arthur was able to retain his grip on it.

Morris Quince pulled back his huge fist preparing for the coup de grâce. He swung, punching Arthur hard across the face, connecting with a sickening whack. The gun flew out of Arthur’s hand, sliding across the marble, and landing at Von Helsinger’s feet. The doctor quickly picked it up.

Morris did not look up, but continued to pummel Arthur.

“Morris, you’re going to kill him,” Seward said, standing back but using his doctor voice. “Do not do this. You will regret it.”

I turned to the Count. “Please stop him,” I said. I hated Arthur for what he had done, but I did not want to watch a man die. Please. I begged him with my mind, with my eyes, with all my feeling, because I knew that he was the only one who had the power to stop the brawl. He looked at me impassably, doing nothing.

It is not my affair, nor is it yours. Many faces are at work here. Do not interfere.

The Count turned away and looked at Von Helsinger, who held the gun in his quivering hands. I thought he would use it to whack Quince on the head and save Godalming, but instead, he sidestepped the two fighting men and pointed the gun at the Count. The doctor’s hands were shaking as he slowly pulled back the hammer, unsure what he was doing. It looked as if the effort of drawing it backward was more than he had anticipated, and he had to use both thumbs. The barrel of the gun wavered in the air, pointed at everyone and no one.

“Get out of the way, Harker,” he yelled. “Give me a clear shot at the demon!”

Look at me, Mina. Look at me.

I did not want to take my eyes off Von Helsinger, but I felt the Count demanding that I meet his eyes.

I looked at him, and he gave me an almost indiscernible smile. In that instant, I heard the gun explode. Jonathan put his arms around my waist and pulled me aside. I did not see who or what the bullet hit, but, as the deafening noise echoed off the marble floors, sounding through the foyer, Quince stopped hitting Arthur and jumped to his feet.

Von Helsinger was shaking, his big eyes bulging. A puff of smoke hung over the barrel. The Count’s great sapphire eyes were gleaming, brighter than I had ever seen them.

“It is not over, Mina,” he said to me. “It is never going to be over.”

Eternity is ours.

The bullet had punctured his chest, but it had not exploded with blood. Rather, a white vapor began to pour out of the wound. The expression on his face did not change, and he held me with his eyes. Slowly, his body began to fade, like a painting that has muted over time, only this was happening before our very eyes. The color drained out of him until he turned pearlescent and increasingly more transparent, the way he had looked in the Gummlers’ photograph. Particle by particle, his shimmering essence transformed into the fine white mist that I had seen creep through the asylum window. Then, without a trace, he evaporated into the air, joining with some invisible web of things.

Everyone was quiet, watching the miracle in astonishment. For what seemed like a long time, no one moved or spoke, too awestruck by what we had just witnessed. Despite the agenda the men had come with, both Seward and Von Helsinger were moved to wonder. Von Helsinger muttered something in German, and Seward replied, “Amen.”

We stood as tense as statues, staring at the space that the Count’s body had once occupied. Everyone was afraid to move. Morris was the first to let out a deep breath, which reminded the rest of us to breathe. Von Helsinger dropped his gun hand to his side, his arm still shaking. I could hear everyone begin to take breaths. Just as everyone began to exhale, Arthur grabbed the pistol out of the quivering hand of Dr. Von Helsinger and pointed it at Morris. Without hesitation, he shot him in the heart.

Morris dropped to his knees, a look of shock on his face. Godalming kept his gun pointed at his victim’s chest as the other man fell. Morris held out his arms in surrender, and I thought that Arthur was going to fire again, but he did not. He just continued to point the gun at Morris, and by the time the rest of that man’s body crumpled to the ground, his eyes were closed and his once powerful form, lifeless.

John Seward raced to Morris, ripping open his vest and shirt to get to the wound, oblivious to the blood that gushed out of his chest. He tore the shirt apart, exposing the wound, a garish hole marring the perfection of Morris’s youthful body.

“Dear God,” Seward said, and I felt his helplessness.

“If you can remove the bullet, I will close the wound,” I said.

The men looked at me, wondering what I meant, but Jonathan said, “She is capable of it. I have seen it.”

Seward put his hand to Morris’s neck, but then his back slumped in defeat. “Can she raise the dead too?” he asked.

I knew that it was too late. Morris’s life was over the moment the bullet penetrated the heart. Arthur had shot to kill.

“You will never get away with this,” I said to Arthur, ignoring the gun in his hand. I knew he would not turn it on me.

His face was swollen beyond recognition. His eyes looked like little red pinpricks inside the puffy sockets. He had lost his front teeth to Morris’s punches. Bruises were beginning to form below his eyes. In a few hours, his countenance would be as hideous as his character. I suspected that his cheekbone was broken, and his grimace twisted to one side.

“Everyone present saw that I was attacked by a man who was obsessed with my late wife,” he said calmly. “And if you choose to disagree, let me remind you that you are an escapee from a mental asylum and hardly a credible witness.” He gestured to the men. “And the rest of you are accomplices, are you not?” Neither Von Helsinger nor Seward responded, but Jonathan said, “I am taking Mina out of here.”

Jonathan took my arm, but I shook him off. I began to feel my fury rise, the same savage vehemence that had set me on Ursulina. Jonathan must have been aware of what was happening because he stepped back, giving me room. I felt the surge inside me gathering strength, filling me with the excitement of taking revenge. I envisioned myself flying through the air and landing on the murderer, attaching my teeth to his neck and sucking the essence from him until he was dead. I saw it all happen in my mind’s eye. I would not make the incision neatly as I had done with the lamia. No, this time, I would do it savagely with my teeth, tearing into him like an animal, causing him the most severe pain possible. Revenge for Lucy. Revenge for Morris.

Without any effort, my body propelled itself toward him. I did not feel myself moving, but found myself with my legs wrapped around him, suctioned to his body, his hair in my fist, and my hand jerking his head back, exposing his long white neck. His hair felt oily and thin, and he smelled like sweat and gunpowder, nauseating to my stomach, but I would not let that stop me. I heard the gun drop from his hand and onto the floor.

“Help me,” Arthur cried out, his voice strained because I had jerked his neck back so far.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Von Helsinger stoop to pick up the gun, when Jonathan’s boot stepped on his big, meaty hand, and the doctor cried out in pain. “Do what you must, Mina,” Jonathan said.

In as savage a moment as I have ever experienced, I sank my teeth deep into Arthur’s neck. I am certain that all the men were yelling, but I was too focused on my task to give them my attention. Hissing and growling like a wild beast, I did not merely take his blood from one wound, but made a network of incisions on his neck, tearing the flesh each time, causing him fresh agony. I would have drained him to death, but I could not bear the taste or scent of him-acrid, like vinegar left too long on a poultice.

I backed off him and left him slumped and bleeding on the floor. I coughed, spitting the taste of him out of my mouth. I wiped my lips clean and I turned to Seward, who was pale and in shock, clutching a table as if that inert piece of wood could save him. “Your turn, John. You wanted me, and now you are going to have me.”

Before he could move, I sped across the room and had my hand around his neck and his body pinned against the wall. Looking into his gray eyes and remembering what he had done to me, I was overtaken with an urge to kill. My teeth were touching his skin when the door flew open, and a strong, cold wind blew through the room. I felt it swirl around me, caressing my face and body, and chilling me to the bone. With it came a haunting sound, a woman’s voice keening a funereal lament. Lonesome and sorrowful, the cry filled the room, and I knew either intuitively or from a long-distant memory that it was the song of the banshee.

I released Seward from my grip, but he remained backed up against the wall, whether more afraid of me or of whatever had entered the room, I did not know. I looked about for the source of the screeching wind, but saw nothing. The song grew louder and louder to the point of intolerable, and I wondered if the Count had unleashed some malevolent force upon us. The men were trying to dodge the presence as it circled and encircled them, toying with them. The volume continued to grow, coming from no one and no direction, escalating until its weeping and wailing was unendurable. The very room was shaking with it, and I put my hands over my ears and noticed that everyone else had done the same.

All of us were hugging ourselves now, shivering. Arthur was still slumped on the floor, bleeding and in a daze. The air around him began to shimmer, forming the familiar shape of a young woman. I watched Arthur’s face contort with horror as he realized who was standing before him. Her long blond hair was loose and hanging almost to her knees, and layers of white and gold energy draped about her like a diaphanous gown.

Arthur screamed, cowering against the wall, sliding to his knees, his bruised eyes staring up at her in terror. I could not see her face, but from the horror in Arthur’s eyes and the revulsion of the other two men, and from the hideous wailing that seemed to originate in her ghostly being but penetrated into every crevice of the room, I am sure that she appeared as her husband had once described-vengeful and angry, eyes dripping with blood like one of the Furies. She did not attack Arthur but dropped to the floor, draping herself over Morris’s corpse, her gossamer gown spreading like wings until he was entirely covered. She continued to howl with such intensity that I thought the sound would permanently deafen us.

Jonathan grabbed me by the hand and pulled me toward the door, but I resisted him.

“The baby, Mina. You must think of the baby,” he said, yelling over Lucy’s preternatural cries, which were reverberating so furiously in the very core of my body that I had to wonder if indeed the child might be harmed by it. He put his hand on my stomach as if to emphasize his point, and I let him pull me away from the horrific scene, my eyes riveted to it until he slammed the door behind us.

“Our business here is done,” he said with finality. We looked each other in the eye, and there was a silent understanding between us. Hand in hand, we walked away from the mansion and into the muted twilit evening.